


and you can call this the funeral

by orphan_account



Series: fifty words for murder (and i'm every one of them) [6]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: M/M, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he aches.<br/>oh, how he aches.</p><p>
  <i>i'm just telling the truth<br/>and you can play this at my funeral</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you can call this the funeral

**Author's Note:**

> (title - r.i.p. 2 my youth by the neighborhood)

he aches.

oh, how he aches.

he fades in and out of consciousness for hours, but his first coherent thought when he awakens is always how bad it hurts. everything hurts. every last one of his nerves burns like a red hot flame at the exact moment he creaks open his gritty, wet eyes; he’s been crying in his sleep again.

mostly because of the pain. partially because of what tyler’s done to him.

beaten him raw and bloody until he can barely stand and then chains him up in the basement as his punishment when he lashes out in anger. breaking that jar has been among the stupider things he’s done, right up next to the time he tried to escape.

he’s sprawled on his stomach on the concrete of the basement floor.

it reeks like cleaning supplies, reminds josh faintly of a hospital; it smells so sterile, feels so clean, and he knows that tyler’s already cleaned up the basement from their most recent playdate. that means he’s done the stairwell. he must be doing the bathroom, if the shuffling footsteps upstairs are any indicator to go by.

he groans. his back aches when he moves some, feels the dried blood caked into his skin; he’d ripped open some of his stitches in his breakdown, torn open more when he was being dragged downstairs by his hair. if he reached a hand up and ran his hand through it, there’d probably be clumps missing from how hard tyler was pulling him, not giving him a second of leverage as he tore him downstairs. there’s going to be bruising on nearly every inch of his body and he _aches_.

he’s fucked up really bad.

tears well up in his eyes. maybe tyler will finally gather the courage to kill him this time, just to get rid of the unbearable pain. or maybe he’ll just let him suffer like every other time, until he learns his fucking lesson. it’s the last time he steps a toe out of line.

he hopes tyler kills him. he won’t love him, so maybe he’ll fucking kill him.

he fades back out of consciousness, crying and hoping the infection he’ll get will kill him so tyler doesn’t have to make that decision.

+

three days.

he hasn’t eaten in three days, hasn’t seen the light of day in three days; all he knows is the cool concrete of the basement floor underneath his stomach, the shackles around his ankles and hands that clink when he tugs slightly on them.

he spends the first day screaming.

screaming, crying, thrashing; begging forgiveness, screaming he was _sorrysorrysorry_ so maybe tyler would fucking get down there and he could beg on his knees for him to just kill him. _kill me, kill me, kill me._

the pain is unbearable. he’s never felt anything like it. he doesn’t have any access to medication and he can feel the infection eating away at his skin, the blood caked dry all over his back; he screams himself hoarse until he feels like his vocal cords are shredded, screams until there’s blood leaking down his throat in hot, heavy streams.

he needs to die. he’s never been in so much pain before. tyler doesn’t come downstairs once.

josh cries himself to sleep.

the second day is better. he can’t talk, can’t scream, can’t beg for his forgiveness or release, can’t ask for food or meds or to be let upstairs. nothing. he makes no noise and the pain in his back has dulled into white noise. the most prominent ache is his throat; he’s fucked it up beyond repair and he knows it well.

he laments his past, present, future, because it’s all he really can do; curse his existence, curse tyler’s existence, curse himself for ever being born. the tears never end, leak down his face in steady streams as he tugs at the chains around his wrists and wishes for it to all be over.

he’s never wanted to die so badly.

the third day is better.

he accepts that he’s being punished. his throat is numb and his back no longer hurts as much as it originally did. this is what he has to go through for breaking the jar. tyler told him he’d regret it, and he is.

he’s taking it, though. he’s taking it like the good boy he is. like tyler tells him he is, if he’s real good for a period of time; he craves the touch of tyler’s hand in his hair as he pats his head, bends over at the waist and whispers ‘that’s a good boy’ in his ear.

he’s a good boy. he misses tyler’s touch.

he misses his lips, burning tracks against his skin, especially when those lips are wrapped around his cock and working him deep into submission; he misses his hands as they grip his thighs and press them up to his chest, claw crescent-shaped marks into his skin as he writhes under his touch. he misses his cock shoving deep inside him, misses tyler growing in his ear as he fucks him senseless into the bed, _misses misses misses_.

it’s his punishment. he’s a good boy. he’ll take it like a good boy. he lays flat on his stomach and remembers that the ache when he shifts is what happens when he acts up. he twists the chain of the shackles around his fingers, licks his dry lips and ignores the way his stomach is growling in hunger.

he sleeps.

the fourth day is the best.

he still can’t talk, but there’s no pain. he’s so numb to it, doesn’t feel his stitching or his still-bleeding throat or his numerous cuts and bumps and bruises.

he’s a good boy. tyler will come get him soon.

tyler will get him and tell him he’s a good boy and praise him and feed him and clean him off and maybe, just maybe, tyler will fuck him.

he’s missed being fucked so much. his cock twitches valiantly, but he can’t touch himself. his hands are locked in place, wrists bound, and it’s just another part of his punishment. the punishment he’s taking like a good boy.

footsteps on the stairs sound; josh blearily blinks open his eyes, tries to push himself up to greet tyler like an excited puppy. but he’s so, so tired. his arms give out and he collapses back onto the concrete with a grunt.

how _long_ has he been so tired?

“hi, joshie,” tyler purrs, crouches next to his skeletal frame and runs a hand over his stitching. josh barely feels the movement, just grunts weakly and blinks his eyes as tyler’s face comes into his line of sight. “have you learned your lesson? looks like it.”

another low, weak groan. tyler smiles softly at him as he fishes around his pocket, gently touching josh’s wrist with his free hand; the clink of metal as tyler unlocks his shackles, slides his wrists out of their confinements.

his vision begins to go black as tyler unlocks the ones around his ankles.

he’s asleep by the time tyler hoists him into his arms.


End file.
